


The Ghost

by lornesgoldenhair



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, TARDIS - Freeform, hologram
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lornesgoldenhair/pseuds/lornesgoldenhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the end of Series 8 and later after Last Christmas. The Doctor struggles to be with Clara and without her. Whouffaldi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost

Guilt. That was what he felt the first time. As though he were somehow sullying her memory while all the time trying to secure it for posterity. He’d debated with himself for days, weeks even, sitting alone in his leather armchair, the lights down low, running images through his brain. He’d just never seen it coming, not really, not if he was truthful with himself. Through all of the last year, through his regeneration and her relationship with Danny he’d never truly believed there would come a day when Clara Oswald wasn’t there.

But that was how it always ended wasn’t it? With companions? They always left or died or had to move on with their lives and he always remained. Alone with his memories.

Well why shouldn’t he have those at least?

His hand had hovered over the controls as he’d debated. He really was never going to see her again. She had a life now with her boyfriend, just as she should, and he knew he would never be able to bear seeing her face, knowing that he would have to leave again. It was better this way. So why shouldn’t he have just a little comfort? She would never know.

But he would, and he was ashamed. Ashamed that the thought had even crossed his mind, ashamed that once he had he longed for it, he could think of nothing else. He knew within himself he was going to give in, punch the configuration into the TARDIS and press engage. So he might as well just do it, he was putting off the inevitable, his weakness. He needed her and this was all he had left.

He’d finished programming the device and lingered just a moment longer. Was he really, really sure? Well no. But he couldn’t take another empty night.

The interface had zapped into life just next to the controls. With the rest of the console room in darkness it gave it a strange glow, halo-like around the figure. It needed adjustment. It wasn’t quite right. It stood motionless and waited for his instruction.

‘As I last saw her,’ he said quietly, and the figure changed, its clothes altering from a light summer skirt to the pale sweater and green coat she had worn in the café. Its hair lengthened slightly and its face was scrubbed of make-up. It stood with its hands linked lightly in front of it and looked idly round the room.

His breath felt shaky and he took a step forward, its eyes snapping to him curiously and a faint smile appearing on its lips.

‘Hello Doctor,’ it said in her voice.

He hesitated. It wasn’t her. He knew that, he’d programmed it himself, but he wanted so badly to believe, just for a moment.

‘Clara…’ he said doubtfully and its smiled became wider. It bounced slightly on its heels the way she did when she was excited.

‘Where are we going?’ it asked, ‘Are you going to show me some planets?’

For a second he contemplated it, flying the TARDIS somewhere private and taking the hologram with him, pretending full time, hiding somewhere with his make believe companion because reality had become too painful.

‘Not today,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ its face fell and it frowned, the little line between its brows just perfect, just like her. It stepped forward thoughtfully. ‘What would you like to do then?’ it asked.

He stepped back, afraid the illusion would shatter if it got too close, and climbed the steps to his chair. He watched it wander round the control room, trailing its hand over the controls, glancing up at the rotor, looking as at home as Clara always did. Finally it turned its head to him again, eager for an answer, ‘Doctor?’ it queried.

He sat in the chair and let the darkness cover his face, let the shadow hide his expression while the lights illuminated his creation below. It peered into the gloom and located him, ‘You’re no fun today,’ it said, ‘What’s the matter?’

He watched it climb the steps after him and in the shadow it seemed even more like her, its features already so life like blurred by the darkness, it stood over his chair.

‘Would you like me to run a different programme?’ it said.

‘No… thank you…’

It hovered unmoving.

‘Would you like me to initiate sexual gratification?’

‘No!’ he snapped, ‘No…. that’s not what this… you….’ He felt ill. He knew holograms were used for these things but that had never been his intention here, he could never… he passed a hand over his face, ‘That’s not what I programmed you for.’

He considered turning it off. Somehow its presence was making him feel worse. It was so like her and yet not, but then he remembered why he’d programmed it in the first place.

‘I want you to…’ he started unsure how to frame the words. If this had been the real Clara he would be terrified but it occurred to him it didn’t matter now what he said, how many of his feelings were revealed, how vulnerable he looked, because she would never see and the hologram for all it looked like her would never care. ‘I want you to sit with me,’ he said.

It stood over him and then weighed its options, sat on his right knee, insubstantial and empty. He pulled it towards him, tried to imagine it was more solid than it felt, tried to inhale the scent of her perfume or her shampoo. His eyes stung. He lifted a hand to its hair and stroked it, realistically soft, pulled it closer still so that its head was on his shoulder looking up at him, its eyes big and brown.

And lifeless.

‘Close your eyes,’ he whispered, and it did on command. He hesitated, looked at its lips, something inside him so alone at that moment willing him to risk it, just risk it for the comfort, no-one would ever know. He leaned forward and placed his lips against its mouth, its kiss cool and weightless, like kissing a ghost. It only lasted a second.

It wasn’t her. He pulled back.

‘End programme,’ he said.

 

XXXXXXXXX

 

He swore he wouldn’t use it again. He swore and he stuck to it, for a little while at least, and tried to distract himself with other things. But it didn’t matter where he went or what he did he always returned to the TARDIS and it was always empty. Empty of company, of her voice, of her face, and he would end up in that chair with his memories again, wishing he could hop through time and leave his pain behind but knowing it would only follow.

He tried not to use it, he knew it wasn’t her, wasn’t anything near the real Clara, but it was all he had. He made tiny adjustments, changed its hairstyle, painted its nails, chose outfits from memory or the TARDIS wardrobe and all the while it stood there patiently as he programmed the alterations. It kept him company at night, when the ship was parked somewhere hidden and he sat by the fire of an evening, alone. It would sit by him, dressed in the pyjamas she’d always worn when she stayed on the TARDIS, and it would pretend to read, turning the pages of its book at the same rate she had. He’d watch as its expression changed in supposed reaction to the contents of its novel and imagined its mind was active and engrossed when in truth it was silent.

And last thing he would beckon it to come over, indulge him just a little, take the step the real Clara never did, because he had never let her, and cuddle against him. It wrapped its arm around his middle and he kissed the top of its head. But it never felt real. It never felt solid and whole. It never felt warm. He wondered if there was an upgrade to add those things and then he berated himself for his pathetic state of mind. He was building a Clara doll and dressing it in her memory and something at the back of his mind knew it was wrong. The real Clara would find it creepy, she’d probably be disgusted, and then his hearts would twinge and he’d push the thing away reluctantly and turn it off.

He took it to planets. He relented and piloted the ship to isolated worlds where no-one would see. And he’d park up and dress it in sensible clothes and flat boots just like Clara had worn when they went to these places. They’d walk along beaches and through meadows and sit under trees. And he’d hold its hand, feather light in his own, as the suns set.

And gradually he used it more and more because the times in between were so quiet and so lonely and he couldn’t face seeing old friends or travelling. They’d take one look at him and know he was broken, try to find out why, try to piece him back together. His hologram did none of that, it just accepted who he was, what had happened, it just looked back blankly at him when he cried until he asked it to comfort him and then it would engage a programme designed to do just that and hold him close. Because he couldn’t be fixed, this was just how it was.

He lost track of time. And sometimes he would wander the ship for hours, memories guiding him through rooms, rooms she had been part of. He’d find himself standing in the kitchen or heading purposelessly towards the herb garden. He’d find himself by the door of her bedroom, the scent of her still lingering in the air there, on the pillows of her bed, and sometimes he’d go and lie down.

One night he had left the hologram in the library and without thinking made his way back to Clara’s room only to have it follow him. It had found him sitting on the bed, head in hands and he was about to turn it off when it lay down behind him. He hesitated for a moment and looked at its curled form, lying on its side, pulling the covers over its shoulder and he fought with himself. He was so tired, tired of all of it and everything and the toll that loneliness took. He climbed in beside it and ordered the lights go down, felt it shift closer to him, press against his body and sigh. Cautiously he laced an arm around its waist and nuzzled its hair, the pillow below scented like her perfume creating the illusion it was real, and as he drifted into the half consciousness of almost sleep, it could have been.

‘I love you,’ he whispered because the hologram didn’t mind, because it didn’t make him afraid.

XXXXXXX

Clara came back. Father Christmas had insisted on it and suddenly the TARDIS was landing on her roof and he was hauling dream crabs from her face and bringing her back to life. And she’d looked so happy, so delighted to see him, so they’d run away, hand in hand, back to the blue box and all of time and space. He’d been thrilled and excited and then suddenly he’d stalled. What if he lost her again?

She’d seen a difference in him, the result of all those months alone. His hair grown long and his pressed white shirt gone replaced by a tattered hoodie and a jumper with holes. If she knew why she never said but he could see it in her eyes after that initial rush of joy, she was concerned, he didn’t look himself. And she was right. He didn’t feel himself, he didn’t know how to be. She was there, back on the ship, solid and real, her eyes, her face, her voice surrounding him, and he didn’t know what to do. He froze.

He was terrified. Terrified she would change her mind, terrified he would do something to drive her away, that his need for her would become too obvious too fast and she’d wonder what she had got herself into again. He wanted to talk to her but he couldn’t find the words. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and never let go but he was frightened she’d push him away. When he was near her his mind went blank, hypnotised by that smile. He wanted to make her happy, do anything she asked and so when a planet sparked her interest he’d take her, when a space trinket took her fancy he acquired it, he lavished her with her every whim just to see that look on her face.

They got back to their routine, but he lived in fear. He’d already lost her once and it could so easily happen again. In the evenings they would sit and read, her turning the pages quietly, her gaze rapt on the words, intermittently muttering some exclamation at the plot. She would curl on the couch in those pyjamas and the firelight would dance in her eyes and she was so beautiful and real that he caught himself on more than one occasion reaching for her just to pull himself away. Clara was his friend and she’d been through enough, her heart still ached after Danny, her world had been turned upside down. So friends were all they would be, friends was safe. But he found it hard to remain distant and cool. He’d indulged himself too much with her hologram and now he had to change that tact. She was here and she seemed happy, but he couldn’t kiss her, couldn’t wrap her up in his arms and have her sit on his knee, he couldn’t hold her as she slept.

He missed that, his private fantasy world that had saved him from so much loneliness in the months gone before. He lay now in his bed alone and the empty space beside him felt wide and hollow. Yet Clara was just down the corridor, just behind a door. She was as far away from him as ever and it hurt ten times more.

What harm would it do? To lie there with his hologram and know that he was safe. That it wouldn’t reject or question him, that there were no complex emotions or queries, that he didn’t have to untangled the threads of their relationship and form some understanding.

He engaged the programme and it appeared before him.

‘As I last saw her,’ he said and it morphed into the Clara who had shared the couch in the library hours before. It smiled, slipped into the bed.

‘I missed you,’ it said and he pulled it closer.

Sometimes Clara needed to go home for a while, and he’d park up in the school while she went to pay bills or mark books or teach lessons. Sometimes she visited family and would be away for days. Sometimes he would wait for her and sometimes hop forward to when she was done. He could be patient between times these days, he had his hologram for company. So he filled his hours tinkering under the console or doing maintenance on the ship and it would sit nearby and chatter, its range and vocabulary extended a little, some of Clara’s humour copied faithfully in its system, but still never quite _her_. Never quite convincing. He would laugh and tease it back, less guarded than he was with the real thing, because he had no fear of losing this one. When he was done it would sit on his lap and run its fingers through his hair and he’d kiss its cool lips with less guilt than before.

And then Clara would return and he’d switch it off.

One day Clara would leave again he was sure. If she didn’t tire of the TARDIS and him, she would yearn for an ordinary life before long. Age would come quickly and after that, death, and she’d be gone. He was protecting himself really, he’d argue, his hologram would always be there.

But at the back of his mind he wondered if he had only deluded himself again. He wondered what Clara would think if she knew. That it was easier for him to love this ghost than tell her that he loved her more.

That he loved her so much it was destroying him.

XXXXXXX

She almost caught him once, her body clock disturbed by recent trips and a quick journey back to London. He had expected her to be sleeping soundly in her room but she had emerged into the console room in the dead of night and he’d barely had time enough to end the programme. The hologram had been sitting in his arms again, talking about his day, the low hum of his voice echoing from the walls. He wasn’t sure if she had heard, if she had seen. He replayed the scene in his head and thought he’d got away with it. He’d have to be more careful. After a second’s hesitation they spoke as normal, decided to head down to the library for a while. He didn’t see the suspicion in her eyes as she followed him from the room. The suspicion and worry, something realised at last.

‘As I last saw her,’ he said tiredly. The day had been a long one and once again they’d barely escaped with their lives. Clara in particular had highlighted to him the fragility of human mortality and he felt sick and shaken that she had come so close to death because of him. Perhaps she would be better back on earth, away from his influence. Perhaps he was close to losing her again for her own sake. He was fulfilling his own prophecy now, he knew. It was cowardice that spoke, not necessarily fact. He needed comfort and someone to talk to.

The hologram stepped forward from the shadows, dressed in the tattered remains of Clara’s coat from their earlier incident.

‘Sorry about your outfit,’ he said.

It looked down and then shrugged, ‘I can get another,’ it said.

He beckoned it forward, ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said. It hovered by his arm. ‘About you… I mean Clara… and whether it might be best if…’

‘If?’ it said sharply.

‘If I take her back home, permanently,’ he said sadly, ‘Where she’s safe.’

‘She’s safe with you,’ it said.

‘Today is not the best example of that,’ he pointed out.

‘She wants to be here,’ it argued.

‘She thinks she does, but she could have a life back in London.’

‘She _chose_ to be here,’ it persisted.

‘She can choose to be somewhere else too.’

‘You mean you can choose for her,’ its tone was almost angry, almost but not quite, and he was suddenly thankful that it couldn’t sound as she could.

‘If I have to,’ he admitted.

There was a pause. He felt his throat tighten and pressed his lips together.

‘What are you thinking?’ it asked him.

‘That she needs to be safe,’ he said, ‘That I have to do what’s best for her, even if it makes her angry, even if she hates me for it.’

‘She could never hate you,’ it said softly and he raised his eyes to it briefly, curious, it looked back at him steadily, the darkness hiding the subtleties of its expression.

‘She will if I make the decision for her…’ he said.

‘Then don’t, let her make it herself.’

‘I can’t do that…. She needs…’

‘What about what you need?’ it asked suddenly. ‘Why don’t you stop making excuses?’

The silence again and he felt the stinging in his eyes become worse. The first of his tears slipped down his face but it didn’t matter, there was only the hologram to see.

‘My needs aren’t important here…’ he managed.

‘You need her…’ it stated simply and he felt its hand come to rest lightly on his shoulder, the barest of touches.

‘I have you.’

‘That’s not the same.’

‘It’s as close to the real thing as I’m ever going to get,’ he said.

‘That’s because you won’t tell her.’

‘I’m too afraid.’

The hologram was silent, he imagined its passive face, its blank eyes, waiting for the next snatch of conversation. If he had only looked up.

‘Let me hold you,’ he said after a pause.

It stepped before him and he shifted in his chair, letting it perch in its usual spot on his knee. He reached up and held its head against his shoulder.

‘Did you install those upgrades?’ he asked, ‘I swear you feel more solid.’

‘I try to be as realistic as possible,’ it said.

‘You see,’ he smiled sadly, ‘We’ll be fine.’

‘You need to tell her,’ the hologram insisted.

‘Shh… Stop talking,’ he said.

‘You can’t send her away,’ it said.

‘I can and I must.’

‘She’s stubborn, she won’t let you,’ it said. He looked at it curiously and let out a short laugh.

‘Yes she is stubborn, but so am I. I love her, more than anything in this universe and I’ve proven on more than one occasion that I’m not good for her.’

‘You’re a coward. If you told her…’

‘I can’t, if I tell her… if she…If she rejects me, if she chooses to walk away, I couldn’t bear it. I am a coward, you’re right, but this way at least I can fool myself, maybe one day come to believe it had been the right thing. I have to let her go… please…’ he leaned forward and pressed his lips against the holograms.

Its warm, soft, lips.

‘I won’t let you…’ she said. There were tears in her eyes.

He held his breath, held the scent of her perfume in his lungs, felt the warmth of her body through her tattered coat and the press of her hands on his arms, watched the expressions pass over her features, worry, frustration, kindness; saw one last one settle in her gaze and knew that no hologram could ever look at him that way.

‘End programme,’ he tried and watched as her sad smile grew wider, the tears spilled over her cheeks, a complexity of emotion in her face he’d never managed to reproduce in her copy.

‘Clara…’ he breathed.

‘Yes,’ she said.


End file.
